They Want A Piece Of Me, or FXXk My Afterlife
by Lampito
Summary: It's not fair. It's just not frigging FAIR. Once he's dead, you'd think a guy was entitled to a bit of peace, but noooooo, his luck's not that good. "F**k my life. F**k my afterlife." A one-shot. **Now with Chapterlet 2: some answers for The Readers.
1. Chapter 1

Aaaargh, I know, I know, I'm meant to be finishing 'Best of Breed', but that plot bunny seems to have gone into hibernation, and this little fluffy bastard was hiding in the bottom of a petri dish. I'm not kidding. I took the lid off a petri dish, and VOOM! This damned plot bunny jumped out, and would not SHUT UP until I wrote what it dictated...

**DISCLAIMER: **None of it is mine, I just tear their clothes off for the amusement of others.

**TITLE: **They Want A Piece Of Me (aka Fuck My Afterlife)

**SUMMARY: **It's not fair. It's not frigging fair. Once a guy's dead, you'd think he could expect a bit of peace, but nooooo, his luck isn't that good. "Fuck my life. Fuck my afterlife." A one-shot

**RATING: **T. Strangely enough, Dean doesn't swear, but everybody else does.

**They Want A Piece Of Me**

"Suck on that, you dumb demon bitch," smirked Dean, giving the corpse a last poke with the jemmy iron as the demon fled. "And don't come back!" he shouted at the shrieking column of smoke as it headed Downstairs. Seriously, they never learned. He was a Hunter, for fuck's sake. He was Dean Winchester! Did those morons (he could've sworn he heard Bobby say 'idjits') think that just because he wasn't as young as he used to be, they could just wander on into the yard any time they liked? Probably thought that three against one was a fair fight. Ha. Like three demons would ever be a match for him…

The sound from the puppy pen suddenly seemed muted. He'd been headed that way, to check on them – nine weeks old, ready to choose their Hunters. He'd miss them, but their dam Shannon wouldn't; she'd weaned them weeks ago, and had taken to using the talents of her bloodline, which included walking through solid objects, to get away from them when she'd had enough.

He hauled himself to his feet, which suddenly seemed remarkably easy. His bad knee had been giving him grief for a couple of weeks, and the pain in his chest was always there…

Except it wasn't.

Well, he wasn't going to complain about that.

Until he glanced down and saw his battered body on the ground, still gripping the jemmy iron.

"Sonofabitch," he muttered to himself, thoroughly annoyed. Dying hadn't been on his list of Shit To Get Done this week.

Still, to look on the bright side, he wouldn't have to keep next week's appointment with Doc Alderton, which he wouldn't miss. She usually used those meetings as opportunities to take him to task for eating too many cheeseburgers, drinking too much, 'not exercising enough' (because he refused to go to those aquarobics classes she promoted to all her 'senior citizen' patients, unless he was allowed to just sit and watch, because some of the regulars looked damned fine for their ages in their swimsuits) and keeping 'intimate company', was how she put it. What, she expected him to tie a knot in it just because he was old enough to remember life before the cell phone? He'd told her in no uncertain terms that he was still capable of making womens' toes curl, and in fact took regular aerobic exercise with some of her other senior patients, though usually only one at a time these days, because hey, he was over seventy, cut a guy a little slack…

He was just studying his mortal remains – damn, he thought, he did leave a handsome corpse – and thinking that it was good not to feel over seventy any more, when a gravelly voice behind him said,

"About twenty-five, I think."

"Huh?" He spun around, and saw a serious-faced man in a rumpled trench coat staring at him.

"Hello, Dean," said Castiel. "I was saying, I think you look about twenty-five. Somewhat younger than you were when first I met you."

"Cas!" grinned Dean, moving to clap the angel on the shoulder, "What are you doing here?"

"You are dead, Dean," said the angel in his familiar deadpan tone. "I thought that it might ease your transition if there was a familiar face to assist you."

"Kind of like, 'Welcome to Heaven, I am Castiel, and I will be your angel guide to your eternal rest, please step this way, if you look to your right you will see some junior angels at harp practice,' like that?" asked Dean. "Holy Tour Guide. You need a hat. And a clipboard."

Castiel almost smiled. "This is a very specific tour, for just one client," he replied. "We should leave now…"

As he spoke, a new noise seeped into the muted soundscape around them. It was a deep, rumbling, thumping noise, and it was heading towards them.

"What the hell is that?" asked Dean.

"Oh, dear," Castiel almost sighed. "I was afraid of that."

A dark shape travelled into view, as if approaching along a long, straight road. As it neared, Dean saw that it was a motorcycle. It was not like any motorcycle known to humankind: it was a huge, pounding, almost organic thing.

The rider turned out to be a buxom blonde woman in leathers that, somehow, revealed an awful lot for an outfit that covered her from neck to foot. She killed the engine, stepped off the enormous machine, and removed her helmet. It had wings on it.

"Dean Winchester?" she asked briskly.

"Er, yeah, present," replied Dean, the Killer Smile sliding into place out of long years of habit.

"Excellent!" she smiled. "Ready to go? Hop aboard. Careful where you hold on – you don't want to distract me," she smiled suggestively.

"Er, hang on," Dean hesitated, confused, "Who are you?"

"I am Sigrun," she told him, "I am your ride. Come, Dean, the Halls await you."

"What halls?" asked Dean, turning to Castiel. "What halls await me?"

"The halls of Valhalla," replied Castiel, actually managing to look miffed. "Sigrun is a Valkyrie, a female figure of the Norse belief system."

"Why is a Valkyrie here to collect me?" Dean wanted to know.

Sigrun rolled her eyes. "Oh, nobody remembers this stuff anymore," she sighed. "I am one of the daughters of the Allfather, who rides forth to collect the souls of warriors who have died in battle." From a saddlebag, she produced a clipboard. "Via your English ancestors on your father's side, you are descended from one Gunar the Ruthless, who ravaged the east coast of England before settling there with his extended family. So, here I am. To collect you. Come on, let's roll. There's a joint of venison on the spit, and a new barrel of beer being tapped."

"We appreciate your efforts, Sigrun," Castiel told her politely but firmly, "But your services are not required here."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "It's Castiel, isn't it?" she said. "How's your wing, Castiel?"

Dean looked confused. "What's wrong with your wing?"

"Sigrun and I have met before," Castiel told him, "We have had a previous… disagreement concerning the destination of a soul."

"I pulled out a handful of his feathers," Sigrun grinned smugly.

"Nonetheless, Dean will be coming with me," Castiel used his Angel Of The Lord Authoritative Eye-Sex Stare on her.

The Valkyrie eyed him levelly. "Where's your paperwork?" she asked, triumphantly waving her clipboard. "You can't have him, because you don't have the paperwork. I, on the other hand, have a clipboard!" She showed it to Dean. "See? From Gunar the Ruthless, all the way down to you."

"Wow," marvelled Dean, "I've never seen my family tree drawn out like that."

"It is of no importance," snapped Castiel, "Dean will be…"

"Coming through! Coming through!" An officious yet voluptuous figure in a flowing garment pushed her way past Sigrun and Castiel. "Stand aside, plebians, I am on official Imperial business," intoned the woman.

"Who are you?" asked Dean, "And why are you wearing a toga?"

"It's not a toga, it's a stola," replied the woman, sighing in a way that made her chest move in a most interesting fashion, "And I'm looking for Dean Winchester. That would be you, yes?'

"Um, yeah," Dean agreed, "But…"

"You're dead," said the woman crisply, "I am Liana, one of the spirits assigned to escort the brave and virtuous to the Styx. I don't suppose you have a coin for Charon?" Dean shook his head. "Here," from the folds of her dress she produced a small rectangular coin, and a handful of small chocolate pieces. "Carob dog treats," she told him, "For Cerberus. He's such a daft old thing, he'll jump all over you on your way in – believe me, you do not want to be slobbered on by a giant dog with three heads. But if he does, don't worry, there's a very good laundry service available in the Elysian Fields, where a soul of your calibre will be welcomed and honoured."

"Push off, you," sniped Sigrun, "Dean is coming to Valhalla, as befits a hero who has fallen in battle."

Liana glanced down at the cooling body on the ground. "That's not a weapon," she pointed out.

"He was using it as one when he fell," argued Sigrun. "Plus, I have a clipboard."

"Well, I have clipboard too," smirked Liana, "With which I can show that Dean is descended from fine patrician Roman stock. Look, there," she pointed to the intricate family pedigree, "Octavia Julia Felix, on his mother's side. Followed her husband to Britain when his legion was posted there, and had a child by a local lover, who became was Dean's ancestor. Plus," with a flourish she produced a second piece of paper, "I have a Docket Number!"

"You are not required here, Liana," intoned Castiel.

"Oh, hello again, Castiel," smiled the helpful administrative spirit, "How are you feeling?"

"Why are you asking?" queried Dean.

"She kicked me in the Grace," mumbled Castiel.

"So, Dean," she turned back to him, offering a shapely white arm, "If you'll just step this way…"

"Didn't I tell you to take a hike?" demanded Sigrun.

"Blow it out your ear, you leather dyke," sneered Liana.

"Dean?" a gentle voice behind him caught his attention. "Dean Winchester?" A young woman wearing a doeskin dress and elaborate beaded necklace stood smiling beautifully at him. "Walk in beauty, brave warrior."

"Oh, crap," muttered Sigrun, "Not you again, Pony Club Pocahontas."

"Get lost, horse girl," humphed Liana under her breath.

"Um, do I know you?" asked Dean tentatively.

"I have brought you your steed, to take you to the Happy Hunting Ground," the young woman smiled, stepping back to reveal that she was being followed by a motorcycle that looked very fast. It whickered, rolled forwards, and nudged a handlebar against Dean's hand affectionately.

"Er," he said.

"You should not be here," Castiel told her sternly, "Dean has already…" he fell into silence as the young Native American woman drew a clipboard from her woven bag.

"On his father's side," she said, flipping through pages of family tree, "When his ancestors arrived from England, his several-times-great grandmother had a liaison with a man of the Great Plains, and never told her husband." She handed the clipboard to Castiel. "All the forms are in order for me to claim this fearless hunter," she informed him, "Including family tree, Docket Number, AND countersignature."

Castiel peered at the paper. "I cannot read this signature, it is just a scribble," he frowned.

"That's not important. The important thing is, I have it," she took her clipboard back, and cocked her head. "How's your hair, Castiel? Growing back?"

"What happened to Cas's hair?" Dean asked, patting the bike's tank as it snorted contentedly.

"She pulled my halo off," admitted Castiel reluctantly, "And I am afraid that quite a large hank of my vessel's hair was abruptly removed from the scalp."

"You don't want that thing," purred Sigrun, patting the tank of her own mount, "This is a real bike. Come with me. You can ride," she offered, loading the statement with innuendo.

"In the workshops of the Elysian Fields, Vulcan will forge for you one that hasn't even been designed yet," promised Liana.

"Neither of them will bear you as eagerly or faithfully as Racer will," pouted the Indian girl.

"Dean does not want a motorcycle, eager or not," Castiel told the women, sounding a bit snippy, "What he wants is for me to accompany him to Heaven, to eternal joy in the Kingdom of my Father…"

"What's the beer like, huh?" demanded Sigrun, prodding Castiel rudely. He hissed in outrage, and prodded her back.

"Or the wine? They only drink wine while pretending it's blood," sneered Liana, elbowing Sigrun out of the way to thrust an accusing finger into Castiel's face. "Drinking blood, eating flesh, you lot are just weird, you know that?"

"And repressed," added the Indian maiden, "Was there ever a belief system so hung up about such a beautiful, natural act?"

Dean looked thoughtful. "Tell me more about the beautiful natural acts of the Happy Hunting Ground," he said.

"They are natural," she showed him a come-hither smile of perfect teeth, "And very, very beautiful."

"We have beautiful natural acts too!" insisted Liana. "With wine!"

"Beer! Beautiful natural acts, with beer!" barked Sigrun, "On bearskin rugs! With roast venison!"

"We have orgies!" announced Liana, "We wrote the textbook on orgies!"

"Saunas! We have saunas!" countered Sigrun, giving Liana a shove, "Beautiful natural acts in saunas! With busty blonde women! Naked! Whacking each other with birch branches!"

"Puppies!" yelled Liana with the expression of someone playing a trump card, "We have puppies! Adorable, gorgeous, playful, three-headed puppies! Your head would explode from the cute, except you're already dead!" She aimed a kick at Sigrun.

"So if you'd like to go with Racer, he will bear you to the Beautiful Natural Acting Grounds," wheedled the maiden, grabbing Dean's arm.

"Dean is coming with me," Castiel told her firmly, prising her hand away.

"Shut up!" shouted all three women at once, simultaneously slapping Castiel.

The angel looked angry. "If you do not stop that, I will smite you," he threatened.

"Oooooh, I'm shaking, I'm shaking," whined Liana rudely.

Castiel's sword dropped into his hand. "Do not provoke me," he warned them.

"Ha! Call that a sword? That's not a sword." mocked Sigrun. Reaching over her bike, she drew an enormous broadsword. "_This_ is a sword_._"

"I should've scalped you all last time, especially you, Castiel, you pesky creature," the Indian maiden smiled viciously, a wicked thin knife appearing in her hand. "You'd make such a lovely cloak of feathers."

"Fine, you barbarians gut each other while Dean and I go," Liana said dismissively, finishing with a squawk when Sigrun pulled her hair.

"I don't think so," she sneered, then began to scream as Liana raked at her with ferocious nails.

The Indian maiden darted in, and cut one of Sigrun's plaits off.

"I'll kill you for that!" shrieked the Valkyrie, wielding her sword, "Just as soon as I turn this interfering idiot into a feather duster."

"I would very much like to see you attempt to do that," Castiel told her in his most intimidating Warrior Of Heaven voice. The effect was somewhat spoiled when the tip of Sigrun's sword left a large slice through his trench coat. "I am very angry now," he announced, "You should all prepare to be dispatched."

"Fuck off, Feathers!" screamed Liana, whacking him over the head with her clipboard.

As the melee before him turned into an all-out bitchfight-plus-one-angel, Dean heard a honking noise behind him. He turned to see a familiar dark shape on the other side of the yard…

Sam sat in the driver's seat of the Impala, waving urgently to him. Dean ran for it; the car started moving as he slid into shotgun, and pulled the door shut.

"You took your time," grumped Sam.

"It's your own fault, Sammy," Dean smirked, "You should've followed a healthier lifestyle: more burgers, more beer, more bitches. I was always going to outlive you while you kept stuffing yourself with that salad crap. Salad is what food eats, Sam." He glanced back at the very unseemly altercation rapidly disappearing behind them. "I could say the same thing to you. I thought they were going to cut me up and drag me off to multiple afterlives." He looked confused. "Can they do that once you're dead?"

"They argued over you, too?" asked Sam. "Biker babe, the library assistant, and the dusky maiden?"

"And Cas," added Dean. "It sucks," he muttered, "Even dead, everybody wants a piece of us. Fuck my life. Fuck my afterlife. Screw them all. We'll just do our own thing, for a change."

"That's the plan. Er, how is Cas?" queried Sam. "Last I saw of him, they were really laying into him. I think one of them kicked him in the Grace."

"He'll survive," Dean waved a hand airly, "He was threatening to smite them. Then one of them started beating him up with a clipboard. We can go visit him sometime. So," he glanced over at his brother, who looked about twenty-five also, "Where are we headed?"

"Wherever we want to go," Sam grinned at him. "Any requests?"

Dean considered the question carefully as he reached over the back seat, and snagged himself a packet of Doritos. "Somewhere with beautiful, natural acts," he said finally, settling back happily with his snacks, "But no paperwork. Puppies is okay, too, but not essential," he added as an afterthought.

Sam laughed at that – there had been a time when Dean had feared he'd never hear him laugh like that again – and stepped on the gas.


	2. Chapterlet 2  some answers

**Some answers for the Denizens et al.**

…which I may update if required, because the Denizens, Lurkers, Visitors and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse are a pushy and demanding bunch, oh yes.

_I am curious about how Sam died._

Only about twelve months before Dean, so he was just bitching out of habit. Since Sigrun, Liana and the Dusky Maiden all showed up to try to grab him away from Castiel too, we can assume he died with a weapon in his hand. It could've been a gun, a knife, a fountain pen or a dish-mop, but whatever it was, he went down fighting.

_Jemmy iron? Oh, crowbar._

Sorry, Denizens, those pesky dialect differences again. Down Here, a 'crowbar' is a big long steel bar about six feet long, kind of like a giant straight jemmy bar with no split claw on the end. Maybe that's what Sam was using. Although I kind of like the dish-mop theory. Only a Winchester could turn a dish-mop into a deadly weapon.

_I'm going to start a plot bunny farm where my bunnies will reproduce rapidly and I will whisper pervy, eccentric ideas into their bunny ears at night..._

Le sigh. Denizens – they're depraved, but they get shit done.

_was Racer the name of your lost and lamented ride?_

The bike of mine that was stolen was Jezebel (an RZ250, for those of The Faith), a production racing model, although she'd been superseded by the time I had her. I also had one written off from under me, my FZ750, Thorfin Lanesplitter. I missed them both dreadfully.

_Don't they know the best way to entice Dean is with PIE__?_

Clearly not. That's the problem with gods and deities, they think they're omniscient. Mind you, if they'd all turned up with pie, they'd probably have ended up throwing them at each other. It all did get a bit snarky, didn't it?

_I am in wonder of the stuff that comes out of your brain. (Or your petri dish.)_

You and me both. I blame the Denizens, and their damned plot bunny breeding farms. The stuff in the petri dish was supposed to be culture medium, but some idjit had contaminated it. And here I am, without a clipboard to whack anybody with.

_But now I'm wondering "But who's going to take care of the puppies?"_

Dean was found less than an hour later. A younger Hunter named Connor dropped in with some info for Dean, and also to pick his brain about a job he was headed to. He found Shannon and Lexie sitting with their Alpha, and venerable old Rumsfeld on guard at the gates. Dean was getting old, not silly – he had Arrangements in place. A middle-aged Hunter who'd lost a Hunt buddy and an arm to daevas took over at Singer Salvage (they never changed the name of the place) and oversaw the maintenance of the library and breeding of Jimi's line with meticulous care.

The puppies were ready to choose their Hunters, and left with their new Alphas within the week. Connor had recently lost his own dog to a Black Dog, and didn't think he was ready for another one, but one of the pups had different ideas. She worked her walk-through-the-fence talent for the first time, marched up to him, and glared at him as though annoyed he'd taken so long. He tried to leave her behind, but she'd made her choice, and just kept following him around, yapping insistently, and getting into his truck. He knew he was beaten, so he took her with him. He named her Joni, after his mother's first Winchester dog, and she grew into the spitting image of her namesake.

_So the Living Sex God only frolics with age-appropriate partners?_

Definitely, although his margins either side of his age are generous. He even offered to remove the stick from up Dr Alderton's arse once, and promised she'd enjoy it while he did. (She pulled the prune face she only ever seemed to need to use on him, and wondered why he couldn't be more like his brother, who was a much more polite patient.) Ultimately, though, Dean was a dirty old man, not a creepy one.


End file.
